


Date Mates

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind Date, Crossover, F/M, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The "ArmyDoc" (John Watson) and the "GingerCakeLover" (Donna Noble) keep their online-match-up date, despite recent developments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Mates

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story contains characters from both "Sherlock" and "Doctor Who," it is primarily a "Sherlock" story, so you needn't be a Doctor Who fan to enjoy it.
> 
> Timeline here is post S2E1 Sherlock ("A Scandal in Belgravia"), and early in Donna's career as the Doctor's companion--perhaps directly after S4E4 of Doctor Who ("Planet of the Ood").
> 
> Thought John Watson and Donna Noble would be a darling couple, if only circumstances were different, so this began primarily as a writing exercise. The text makes reference to some of what happened in my prior Sherlock story, "In Scandinavia."

“He just seems like such a nice bloke,” Donna explained, deftly poking the posts of her earrings through her lobes without the aid of a mirror. “And of course when I made the date, how could I know I’d have caught up with you again, and be here?”

“Look, I had no idea when I scheduled this dinner that you and I would be. . .” John began, but did not finish. He leaned down to tie his shoes. “It’s just dinner. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“It’s fine,” they replied. The Doctor sounded cheerful; Sherlock sounded petulant. “You go and have fun. I can keep myself occupied.”

Donna tucked her cell phone into her purse. John ran a comb through his hair.

“See you later, then,” John called, shrugging into his coat. Sherlock hummed, feigning indifference, and picked up his violin; a slew of aggressive notes stabbed at the back of John’s neck as he left.

“You’d better still be here when I get back,” Donna scolded. “Don’t go running off on some adventure while you’re waiting, and forget about me.” The Doctor gave her his warmest, widest smile.

“I won’t wait up for you!” they protested—the Doctor poking fun, Sherlock asserting himself.

At the restaurant—cozy, no tablecloths, nicely lit and with just the right amount of noise from piped-in music and a cheerful buzz of conversation—Donna checked in with the hostess, and was lead to a table near the back. A man with a kind, open face stood—somewhat stiffly--as she approached, and reached to shake her hand.

“Ah, here’s the ‘Army Doc’ in person,” she said, extending her hand. He clasped Donna’s hand in both of his and shook it: firmly, just once. He moved to help her out of her trenchcoat and passed it to the hostess, then pulled out Donna’s chair for her. Donna was impressed.

“It’s John, actually. John Watson,” he replied, resuming his seat across the table. “And you’re the ‘Gingercake Lover,’” he offered, passing her the wine list.

Donna corrected him. “Ginger,” she emphasized, touching her hair, “Cake lover.” She shrugged, rolled her eyes skyward. “I do love a bit of cake.”

John laughed, “Ah, of course. Ginger.”

“Donna Noble,” she informed him.

“Glad to meet you,” he replied amiably

The server approached and they ordered a carafe of the house red wine.

“Have you been on a lot of these online dates, then?” Donna asked, holding but not yet opening the menu. John was a bit shorter than her usual type, but his posture was impeccable; he wasted not even a fraction of an inch of the height he did have. His jumper looked like real cashmere, and the collar of his shirt beneath it was free of stains. John’s sleeves were partly pushed up: lovely strong forearms. No visible tattoos.

John scanned his menu, then met her gaze as he replied, “Not many online dates, no,” he admitted. “A few. You?”

Donna was about to exclaim, “Oh, LOADS!” but caught herself. “Yeah. A few for me, too,” she said, with a wrinkled nose. Then, casually, “Haven’t been here before, do you know what’s good?”

John admitted he hadn’t eaten in the restaurant, either, and they spent a few moments perusing the menus. Pretty girl, John decided. Bit older than he’d expected—for some reason he’d had it in his head that office temps were always fresh out of university, 22-year-olds with long, acrylic fingernails and cheap haircuts—but Donna had a friendly way about her that made him feel at ease. A girl you could have a laugh with. Nice bosom, as well. No visible tattoos.

The server returned and poured a splash of wine for John to taste; he approved and she poured them each a glass, leaving the carafe on the table between them. She took their orders and when she’d gone, John raised his glass.

“A drink to new friends.”

“New friends,” Donna agreed, clinking her glass against his. “So, you’re a doctor, then,” she ventured.

John nodded. “I am. Not practicing at the moment, but yes. You?”

Donna’s expression was one of thoughtful consideration. After a long pause, she offered, “I’m a bit between things. Travelling a lot.”

“Anywhere interesting?” John asked, leaning forward a bit.

Donna’s hand swept the air between them. “You couldn’t even imagine!” she exclaimed. She took another sip of wine, gathered herself, and said quietly into her glass, “Harrow. . .” Then, somewhat apologetically, “You know. And Vauxhall.”

John narrowed his eyes at her. “Harrow,” he echoed, in a dubious tone.

Donna laughed. “Not actually Harrow, no,” she admitted. “It’s a bit hard to explain. What about you, though? Are you really an ‘army doc’?”

John nodded. “I was. No longer in the army.”

“So you must have travelled a bit, yourself.”

“Nowhere as glamourous as Harrow,” he joked. “Afghanistan, actually,” he said with immediate regret. “Is. . .where I was. . .last,” he limped to the finish of the sentence, and pursed his lips.

Donna’s expression darkened as John’s words landed between them, lobbed grenades threatening to explode in their faces.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Donna said quietly. “That must have been very difficult.”

“You’ve no idea,” he said, and wished he hadn’t. The discussion was taking on a gravity he hadn’t meant for it to have.

Donna ventured, “It’s awful. . .seeing things more horrible than you’ve ever seen—just cruel, tragic things you hadn’t imagined possible-- and then comes the realization creeping over you:  that sometimes there’s just nothing— _nothing_ \--you can do to help.”

John caught his breath. “That’s exactly it.” He sipped his wine; his hand was shaking. “You didn’t find that out in Harrow.”

“No,” Donna admitted. “No I didn’t.” She looked wistful, faraway.

John nodded. “That’s more of a Vauxhall thing.”

They both laughed, shedding the weight of the discussion gratefully.

The server brought their meals and they softly exclaimed over the beauty of the food. John gestured toward the nearly empty carafe, indicating that the server should bring more wine.

Donna made a yummy noise over a bite of her fish, then probed, “So if you’re not practicing medicine, what do you do? For work, I mean?”

“Bit between things, as you say,” John answered, “I’ve been writing a blog?” It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth—not a proper thing for a man of a certain age to claim as a primary occupation.

“Oh, lovely,” Donna replied. “What’s it about?”

“I’ve this friend, actually,” John began, with a dawning realization that this was his first attempt to explain his new life—the blog, Baker Street, the science lab in his fridge—to someone who didn’t already know the infamous Sherlock Holmes. “He’s a detective.”

“Policeman?”

“No, he works independently. ‘Consulting Detective,’ is the title he uses.”

Donna cocked her head, “Like a private investigator?”

John bobbed his head side to side, shrugging a bit, “Mmm. . .a bit like that. But he’s—well, now that’s a well-cooked steak!—he’s brilliant, Sherlock.”

“That’s his name? Sherlock?” Donna mugged. “What must his mother have been thinking?”

“I know,” John agreed mildly. “You haven’t heard of him, then. Sherlock Holmes? Sometimes he’s in the papers and that.”

“Haven’t been keeping up with the local news lately,” Donna admitted, again hiding her face in her glass and buying time with a sip of wine. She set her glass down and John poured her a refill.

“Ah,” he  said knowingly, “All the travelling.”

“So your blog is about your friend’s. . .detecting?”

“Well, no, not just him. We work together on the cases.”

“He’s the brains and you’re the looks,” Donna joked flirtily.

John blushed, looked down, protested mildly. “Well, I like to think I’m more than just a pretty face. . .”

Donna touched his arm, a playful little shove, “Don’t we all?” she joked. “What can we do, though? Beauty is such a curse.”

“I’ll have to take your word on that,” he demurred, grinning. He took a long sip of wine and then said, “We work on investigating—solving, though Sherlock does that bit mostly on his own—these really difficult cases, and I blog about our—“

“Adventures!” Donna finished for him.

“I was going to say ‘experiences,’ but, yes, some of what we’ve had would probably qualify as adventures.”

“Is your friend a veteran, too? Did you meet him in the army?”

“No. I only met him after I got home. A mutual friend thought. . .I was about to say he thought we’d get on, but Sherlock doesn’t get on with anybody, as far as I can tell. And I wasn’t exactly in a condition to be meeting new chums, so I suppose he must have thought—or knew—that somehow, Sherlock and I just. . .needed each other.”

John felt exposed. Donna’s face, though, was pure compassion, a warm smile that instantly put him at ease.

Her voice when she spoke was gentle, not condescending. “Wasn’t there anyone waiting for you? When you came home from the war, I mean.”

John gave his head a quick, tight shake. “My parents are gone; my sister and I aren’t much in touch.”

“Ah. Then you did need someone,” she said, nodding a bit. “And your friend? What did he need you for?”

John chewed, thoughtful.

“A translator,” he said at last.

“What? He doesn’t speak English?”

“Oh, he does that perfectly. It’s more that he spends so much time in his head, he just forgets the niceties. If he ever knew them. He’s a bit spiky.”

“So you’re a buffer.”

“A bit.”

“You get impaled on his spikes to save other people having to be.”

John laughed—somewhat bitterly. “It’s like you know him.”

“Just take care you don’t end up a bloody mess,” Donna gently chastised.

“I can handle Sherlock; I’ve been shot, for god’s sake.”

“In that case,” Donna said with a tone of finality, “I’d say you’ve bled enough already.”

John, flustered, brushed an imaginary crumb off the table and attempted to deflect, asking, “What about you? Have you got a companion on your trips to Vauxhall?”

Her face instantly brightened. “As a matter of fact, I have,” she enthused. “He’s a doctor, too.” Immediately, she added, “Not that kind of doctor. But he’s brilliant.”

“You’re his assistant?”

“Not exactly,” she said, sounding a bit wounded. “He’s the brains; I’m the looks. And a bit of the brains, as well!”

“Naturally,” John agreed, pouring them each a bit more wine. This girl was really something. He hadn’t expected to like her so much.

“Well, obviously I didn’t like that one little bit,” Donna joked, laying her fork down across her empty plate.

John nudged at the few remaining bits of veg on his own plate with his knife. “Mine was awful, as well,” he said.

Donna leaned in conspiratorially. Her nose wrinkled up as she stage-whispered, “Let’s run out without paying the check.”

John pretended to seriously consider the proposition. “Tell you what—let’s order dessert and coffee and then we can really stick it to them.”

The waitress returned and began to clear their plates away, then offered dessert menus. John ordered a pot of tea and Donna asked for coffee; they finished off the last of the wine while they decided on dessert.

“Something to share?” John suggested. Women always tiptoed around dessert; John found it annoying and pitiful.

“Didn’t I mention earlier how I love a bit of cake?” Donna jibed. “Order what you like, and I’ll have a bite or two. Ooh! ‘Trio of Gelati,’ that’s for me.” She punctuated this assertion by slugging back the last of her wine in one hearty draught.

“Donna. . .” John found himself suddenly apologetic. “You’re a lovely girl—“

“Oh, no, here it comes,” she moaned, but she was smiling.

John shook his head. “You’re a lovely girl, so I really have to be honest with you.”

Donna raised an eyebrow. The server set down John’s pot of tea and Donna’s mug of coffee, took their dessert orders and quickly moved on.

John was about to continue, but Donna held up her hands and shook her head. “Oh, no you don’t, Casanova! I’m the one going to give this speech, because if I’m honest. . . Well, you’re completely charming, of course—“

“But?”

“But,” Donna continued, “I should tell you that I only kept our date because you seemed keen, and in your emails and texts you seemed so nice. And you are! You’re lovely.” She poured cream from a tiny ceramic pitcher into her mug and stirred. “Thing is. . .my situation’s changed recently—changed quite dramatically, as a matter of fact—and as it turns out, I’m not really looking for a relationship right now.” She rested her hand on top of his. “I hope you don’t feel like I’ve wasted your time.”

“Not at all,” John reassured her, the sincerity of his tone belied by his slightly baffled expression. “I was going to say something very similar, actually. Some things have changed for me, recently, as well, and—“

“Your detective friend,” Donna said knowingly, but not unkindly.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. He hadn’t breathed a word about what had transpired between him and Sherlock while they were snowed in at a hotel in Norway the previous month, nor about how their relationship had changed since they got back home to Westminster—not even to discuss it with Sherlock. John was a bit worried to do so would somehow scare Sherlock into retreat.

“There’s something there,” John admitted quietly, “That I think might be worth pursuing.”

“You’re not sure, though?” she asked, as if there was nothing at all odd about the fact their date was ending with both of them admitting they’d never been interested in it to begin with.

The waitress presented their desserts then, and Donna clapped her hands together delightedly.

“How pretty!” she exclaimed. “I’ll definitely be having some of that gorgeous chocolate cake on your plate, as well, so don’t be greedy.”

John dutifully cut his slice of cake in half, nudged part of it aside with his fork, creating a portion for Donna.

“Anyway,” Donna said, “You’re unsure about the situation with your friend. . .?”

“Completely, utterly unsure,” John agreed, sounding relieved to be saying the words. “Lost at sea, me. We don’t discuss it. So I’m just in my head about it. I’ve never spent so much time wondering, ‘What does this mean? What is he thinking? Where is this going?’”

Donna snorted. “Sounds like me, in every relationship I’ve ever had.”

“Well, then maybe I’m not mad.”

“You’ll get there, if you keep up with that,” she assured him.

“I just haven’t had anyone else to talk to.”

“Well,” Donna said, with a tone of comfortable finality, “Now you’ve got me.”

John briefly explained how he’d come back from Afghanistan only to find himself in unrelenting pain from his injuries, virtually homeless, and utterly alone. How every day he’d had to make a decision to leave his bed, then another to leave his room. His struggle against the temptation to abuse his pain medication. And how he’d rather suddenly found himself flatmates with the terrifyingly intelligent, casually cruel, often hilarious, intimidating—and dangerously handsome—bundle of mercurial moods called Sherlock Holmes.

“Then there was a trip to Norway—a case of counterfeiting and some financial shenanigans I admit I didn’t fully comprehend. We were snowed in an extra night, there was a blackout, and a bottle of the most insidious liquor, and. . .”

“And one thing lead to another,” Donna finished for him. They’d polished off dessert while John talked, and now they lingered over coffee and tea going cold in their cups.

“As you say,” John allowed with a shrug. “And in the intervening—what? Month?—Sherlock’s as likely to fling a cup of tea at my head as he is to pour me one.”

“That sounds difficult,” Donna commented. “Anything else gone on since Norway?” she asked. “I mean. . .you know what I mean. Is it rude to ask?”

“A bit here and there,” John said, “Every now and then, here he comes, pulling back my blankets. Once he winked at me, at Scotland Yard. But then he rages at me about my dull brain, or goes off on a sulk for three days and it’s like I’m not even in the flat with him. I never know what to expect. Yesterday he asked me why I wasn’t still seeing this teacher I had two or three dates with, ages ago, but then he seemed put out when I told him I was coming out with you tonight.” John drained the last of his tea. “But, god, frustrating as he is. . .he’s remarkable.”

“You know what you sound like.”

“Like a fan, I know.”

“Like a battered wife.”

John was taken aback, made a small scoffing sound.

Donna said gently, “I’m sure your Sherlock’s quite special, if you’re so fond of him, but he sounds terribly difficult.”

“That he is,” John agreed without hesitation.

The waitress brought the check and they both reached for it.

“I insist,” John said, laying his credit card inside the leatherette folder without looking at the slip inside it. “Least I can do for someone willing to listen to my prattling.”

“Call me Miss Lonelyhearts,” Donna grinned. “I’ll get the next one.”

“I feel a bit guilty I’ve monopolized the conversation with the tale of my baffling love life,” John said.

Donna shook her head, “Not a bit.”

“I should have let you talk more about yourself,” he apologized.

Donna’s expression was playfully mysterious. “Not sure you’re ready to hear what I’m all about, Big Boy,” she told him. “We’ll see.” She gave him a wink.

“Well, now, that’s just not fair. . .” John protested.

“Always leave them wanting more,” Donna replied.

John looked rueful. “Bad timing,” he said at last, with a shake of his head.

“Funny ol’ thing, Time,” Donna agreed. “Anyhow, it’s not you, John—it’s me.”

“It’s not you, Donna. It’s really, really me.” John signed the receipt and tucked his card back into his billfold.

“It’s neither of us--it’s both of us!” Donna let out a hearty laugh.

They pushed back their chairs, rose, and began to shrug themselves into their coats.

“Anyway,” said Donna, freeing her long hair from under her coat collar, “Friends.”

“Friends,” John agreed. He proffered his arm and Donna slipped her hand around his elbow.

Outside, “Give us your phone,” Donna demanded. She fished her own out of her handbag and passed it John’s way. They each entered their contact information into the other’s phone,  exchanged them again.

“You keep me posted about your Sherlock Holmes,” Donna insisted, “And I’ll send you photos of my travels.”

“I’d like that,” John said, rocking back on his heels, then rising slightly on his toes. “Maybe someday in the future, our timing will be better.”

Donna kissed him then—on the lips, close-mouthed but lingering a bit—which took John by surprise.

“Never can tell,” she said, then re-tied the belt on her trench. “It’s a very long time, the future. Now, I’m going to walk away, and you’re going to stand here under the lamp and watch me go, filled with growing regret that I just may be The One That Got Away.”

John snapped a salute. “Ma’am.”

She stroked the lapel of his jacket. “Take good care of yourself, John.”

“And you, Donna.”

“Walking away now,” she grinned, and that’s precisely what she did.

Dutifully, John watched her as she went until he lost sight of her down the darkened pavement.  He hailed a taxi.

*

“Well then,” they said, sliding their smarty-pants spectacles down their noses. “How was your date?”

“Lovely. Brilliant.”

“Oh?” They feigned indifference.

Donna hung her coat on the wooden rack inside the door, lifted her foot to unfasten the ankle-strap on her shoe.

“In different circumstances, I’d say you might have something to worry about.”

John loosened his necktie, unbuttoned his collar.

“What? You’d leave me?” they asked, lower lips pouting out.

Donna grinned conspiratorially. “He’ll make some bloke a lovely little wife.” Donna lay her hand on the Doctor’s shoulder, glancing over at the monitor, though she had no hope of deciphering what appeared there.

John planted an unrepentant kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head, then glanced at the book he was holding, though he knew it would all be Greek to him. Wait, was it actually Greek? Slightly amending what had actually been said at the restaurant, John offered, “She said I sound like your wife.”

“Better luck next time, then,” they said, sliding their eyeglasses back into place. “Drink?”

“Not tonight, thanks,” Donna yawned exaggeratedly. “Bed!”

The Doctor grinned.

“Not for me,” John said. “Got some things I need to think through, then maybe I can get some sleep.”

Sherlock frowned.

“All right then,” they said. “Good night.” They returned to what they’d been reading.

“Sherlock—“ John began.

Donna hesitated. “Doctor—“

“Mmm?” They didn’t look up.

“Nothing. It’s just. . .I’m really happy we’re—“ Donna began.

“I want you to know that I’m glad we’re—“ John said.

“Mates?” They prompted.

Donna beamed. “Yeah,” she said tenderly. “Mates.”

John grimaced. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “Mates.”


End file.
